


who all night long unwearied sing

by hellofromlesbistan



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Phobias, Sensory Overload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 23:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4241310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellofromlesbistan/pseuds/hellofromlesbistan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pop, crack, that god-awful high-pitched whine every five seconds…</p><p> </p><p>He's screaming. </p><p> </p><p>Matt really, really hates the fourth of July.</p>
            </blockquote>





	who all night long unwearied sing

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by the wonderful [alanabloom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alanabloom/pseuds/alanabloom), who has never seen daredevil so any character inconsistencies are entirely my own fault. title is a lyric from "[doxology](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MDVuoZ19Tfw)."

Matt really, really hates the fourth of July.

It's not for lack or loyalty or liberty (if anyone's proud of their home, it's the Devil of Hell's Kitchen) and he's fine - he really is - he's just…not the biggest fan of fireworks, is all. Not since he lost his sight and his dad. 

Foggy's noticed over the years that Matt always declined invites to parties and such, figured it was just boring for Matt if he couldn't see the big show. And who really likes to get s'mores all over their hands anyway? Matt's probably just more honest than anybody else Foggy knows. 

Karen notices though, in the week leading up to the fourth, that Matt seems quiet. He gets more tense, more twitchy, and leads with his hands outstretched much more than usual. (Which, really? How does he _not_ do that more often? She tried, once, to walk around the office with her eyes shut. Not to make fun of him, never like that, just to see if she could do it. Almost broke her face on the coat rack.)

Matt's got circles under his eyes that just get darker as the holiday nears, and she catches him staring into space more often than not, fingers shaking over his braille display and obviously comprehending nothing. He stays in his office as much as he can, presumably trying to hide whatever's going on with him from her and Foggy. And Karen, being Karen, is having _none_ of that.

When the fourth finally arrives, she brings him coffee every hour (sneakily switches him to decaf after 9, even though he can probably tell) and tries to find something, anything to talk about. His shoulders get just a little less stiff when he hears her voice, she notices. (She tries to brush her hand against his as often as possible, too, but she's not entirely sure who benefits more from that one.) Foggy doesn't seem as worried as she does, and he's known Matt forever, so she's aware that she's probably either overreacting or it's something Matt really wants to hide from Foggy. She tries to keep whatever secret he has safe and she works until it's dark and Foggy's gone home for the night. 

 

* * *

 

Karen opens Matt's office door quietly, looks him over as she swings it open - his hair's a mess like he's been pulling at it, glasses slid down on his face, tie loosened and he's breathing hard like he's just run a marathon. Or like he's scared.

"Um, Matt?"

He flinches, hard, nails digging into his desk to keep from tipping over his chair. 

"Ah..'m sorry, I didn't…what? _Karen_?"

His breaths get shorter as he waits for her to respond, eyes flicking madly somewhere in the direction of her left shoulder. He's practically vibrating.

"Hey, I just…well, I was gonna come up with some bullshit story about how we haven't eaten dinner yet, but to be honest, you don't look like you're in any shape for that. Or anything, for that matter. What gives, Matt?"

"I'm, uh, noth- _ah,_ nothing, it's nothing Karen, I'm f- _fine,_ it's fine."

She steps into the room, watching him twitch with every soft click of her heels. God, he's a mess.

"You are the exact opposite of fine, Matthew Murdock," she whispers, sitting on the corner of his desk, leaning further and further into his space. "Have been all week. You gonna tell me why?" 

Her head dips at that, and he smells her shampoo as her hair falls over her shoulder. He can feel her body heat like she's nothing but a feverdream, hears the rasp of her lungs like a semi truck screaming by on the freeway. He can _feel_ her eyes on him, digging around for answers he doesn't even know how to give. Sure, she doesn't know about his extracurricular activities, so there's no risk of her thinking he's gone weak all of a sudden - but that almost makes it harder to explain _"Idiots all over the city have been shooting off fireworks sporadically for over a week now and I haven't eaten and haven't slept and I can't even tell the gunshots from the pyrotechnics anymore, people could be dying, they could need_ ** _help_** _, and I wouldn't even_ ** _know_** _."_

So instead he says nothing. Just rests his shaking head on her arm. He grimaces a little as the chaos she can't even hear yet continues outside, rubs his face on her shoulder like maybe he can burrow there and hide from all of it. That way she feels him flinch when the fireworks she can finally hear start up, and the pieces fall into place. She hums sadly and pets his hair with one hand, the other freeing the death-grip he's got on the desk. He doesn't loosen his fist, though - she's not sure he can, and she thinks her hand will probably bruise soon if she doesn't take care of this, like, _now._

Lips on his forehead, in his hair, murmuring into his temple - "Let's get you home, huh Matty?"

It takes him a second to realize that she means both of them, and it's nothing but sweet and innocent (it's Karen, of course it is) but he can't…Foggy thinks it's because he's _bored_ by fireworks, and Karen needs to think…anything at all less mortifying than what it really is: Matt, slowly but surely losing his grip on reality for a night.

He pulls back from her, gradually, making sure she won't think he's offended. 

"I- I can't - no, uh, you…you go home, Karen. You go home. I'll- I'll see you tomorrow." 

He tries to straighten his glasses, but a crack from outside makes him slap them nearly off his face instead. She takes them off, sets them softly on his desk, but her voice is sharp with concern.

 "What the _hell,_ Matt? No, you know what, I don't - "

Karen gets up and walks out. Just like that. It's what he told her to do, but he still feels like she takes every single bit of oxygen out of the room with her. Just like that. 

She storms back in a moment later with his cane and her jacket in her hands, goes to shove his cane at him before she realizes he's kind of pale and kind of not really breathing. 

" _Matt!_   Okay, here, up you go…we're going home now, come on…"

Karen grabs his arms and hauls him up, lets him lean on her while he gasps the air back into his chest. She drags him out the door - he'd probably be kicking and screaming, too, if the fireworks hadn't kicked up again. 

 

* * *

 

They walk to his apartment, half-running and stumbling every few steps because she's tucked herself under his arm and wrapped both of her arms around his waist, holding on tighter every time a firecracker bursts somewhere nearby.

By the time they reach his door Matt's shaking so hard that she has to take his keys out of his pocket. (That's one good thing, she thinks - that they're too stressed out to focus on how awkward it is.) The booming and popping is slightly, blessedly muffled once they get inside. In the sudden quiet Karen realizes she hasn't said a word since they left the office, but Matt beats her to it as she deposits him on the couch.

"Karen, please, _please_ \- you can go home. Okay? You can go home."

"No, alright? I know you hate this, for some reason. You hate the explosions and you hate being taken care of but I _love you_ and I am going to take _care_ of you, god _damn it_ , _Matt_." 

Her voice is harsh but her fingers are soft as she wraps them around his shaking hands. 

"You…you guys are my family, okay? You and Foggy're my best friends, and you're not doin' so good right now, so I'm gonna help you. Whether you like it or not, Murdock. _I've got you."_

He lets out a sigh (and some tears that he's losing a fight to) and curls in on himself, curls himself toward her. 

 

Just as every fireworks show in the city takes off.

 

* * *

 

_"Matt? Matt!"_

 

He's trying to get on the floor, she thinks. She also thinks he's trying to scream, but to scream he'd need to breathe first and he's definitely not doing enough of that. His arms (and his eyes) are everywhere - all over her, grabbing at her like he's falling off the face of the earth, then he's pulling at his own hair, clawing at his ears, clawing at the _floor._

 _God_ , he's a _mess_.

Matt gets himself between the coffee table and the couch, wedged in the small space and curled tight over his knees. Karen's panicking, mostly, but she doesn't think he has it in him to notice, so she just rubs his back and tries to think.

"Matt? Do you have - do you have earplugs? Huh? Anything like that, we can block this out a little? Maybe some cotton in your ears, huh?"

" _Nooo,_ oh god, _…_ it's…I can _feel it,_ I…"

 

After that he's just crying, mostly. He's pretty much gone. She finds her calm and goes with him.

 

* * *

 

 The longer they sit there, the louder it gets as more and more events start blowing shit up around the city. Karen had never noticed before, how many there are. How long they seem to go on. (Forever? She'd swear to every god she can think of that it's already been forever, jesus, she's not sure he'll _survive_ this, or how the hell he ever did this by himself. Or if he even knows she's there right now, which makes her sadder yet.)

So she rubs his back some more, squeezes his shoulders, pets his hair - pulls at it a bit to hold him up when he starts to rock and hit his head on the floor. 

She sings, a little. Songs she remembers from going to church with her parents when she was a kid, anything she can recall that might tether him to her voice or her words or his god because somebody's gotta save him, especially when the finales start and the whole city and every single firecracker and Matthew Murdock all collectively lose their goddamn minds. 

 

 _Pop, crack,_ that god-awful high-pitched _whine_ every five seconds…

 

He's screaming. 

 

She's so confused, it's not _that_ loud, is this even _normal,_ is he _okay?_

 

(Sing, Karen, just sing and sing and hold your dear friend and maybe learn to pray.)

 

* * *

 

When it's over, down to cheering drunks on the street and the occasional bottle rocket, she whispers him to bed - her hands like ghosts and her voice all light and high, like it doesn't even belong in the same solar system as all the terrible things that have happened to him tonight. And, oh, she's crying. He thought the salt he smelled was just him. His face might burn with shame and guilt if he wasn't so goddamn tired.

"Okay, okay sweetheart, it's over now, there might be a few more later but the big part is over, okay? Shh, I've got you…oh, Matt, I've got you."

Karen lays him down, brings him water hoping it'll quiet the wheezing down. He's vocal when he breathes and she hates that she knows the feeling, waking up from too many nightmares all screamed out.

She wipes his face with a washcloth she found in the bathroom and he leans into her hand. Leaves her hand on his forehead for a while, heavy and solid and _real,_ and if she cries some more nobody can prove it.

Matt's curled on his side when she lays down next to him dressed in his old button-up, and takes both his hands in hers.He thinks he feels her staring and hopes he accomplishes eye contact when he starts explaining in his rough, cracking voice how he doesn't like thunderstorms either, because of all the pressure and noise and feeling the light. Doesn't like long car rides, the noises and the trucks passing and the bumps and holes in the road that build up and up and up and drive him nearly out of his mind. 

He tries to apologize, feels all of a sudden like these new stories are just excuses, so she hushes him and sings, and sings, and sings herself hoarse until he falls asleep, still holding her hands.


End file.
